


Lions, Tigers and Bears. (Oh my!)

by ByronicHeroics



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:20:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ByronicHeroics/pseuds/ByronicHeroics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tommy recounts one of the many events that led up to the creation of Hush’s persona to Dr. Crane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lions, Tigers and Bears. (Oh my!)

It had been a particularly murky, damp, cold December in Gotham that year and so the Elliot estate was accordingly without joy. Though, that description might not have been fair, Tommy noted, as it implied there were times the Elliot estate was joyful. On that day, Tommy had early on been denied his wish to go outside and play with the new geese in the pond. It had been due to fear from the servants that he would fall into the cold water and catch a chill that would be the death of him. So instead, he had been dressed primly in his warm chocolate brown Eton suit and had found himself seated on the rich Persian rug in the living room before the fireplace. Mother-dearest had been gone for the week to visit her poor family, and so Tommy was left mostly to his own devices. 

At the time, he had been particularly fond of his toy soldiers and so he had lined the English soldiers up, with as proper an order as he could imagine a formation, to fight with the set of Indians. They were whom he nearly entirely preferred, due to their brilliantly rendered elephants. When Tommy thought back on it – which was only when Doctor Crane’s tape-recorder was turned off – he believed that his downfall that day had been the misconstrued belief that he was not under a watchful eye without Mother-dearest around. He had felt like Eve in the garden, thinking God wouldn’t know she had tasted the apple. Mother-dearest had switched his hands before for the particular habit, but without her there, he couldn’t help but let his thumb slid into his mouth as he contemplated the warfare. 

It had felt so comforting, though he at the time didn’t understand why, to move his thumb slowly in and out of his mouth while he placed the figurines in appropriate displays of demise. It was with depressing irony when he later recalled, that he had imitated an act he didn’t remember from a figure who had never offered any further comfort than that. Father had come to the living room then, mixing his drink so that the twisted glass stirring stick had clicked just so against the side of the rocks glass. Mr. Elliot had watched his son playing warily, eyes taking in the boy’s greatly determined look, which was so off thrown by the babyish habit he had yet to lose. His little fingers slowly worried his palm as he sucked his thumb, every single motion an attempt to soothe himself, as Dr. Crane would say, as only a child used to emotional neglect knew how.

Father had sipped his drink while he watched the boy play; already half lost to the drunken haze that cold weather further hid behind lax social excuses about the holiday season. After a long moment he had seated himself in a leather wing-backed chair and that distinct creak of suit pants against leather still brought a chill to Tommy. He had put his glass on the fancy little table –without a coaster, Mother-dearest would have been angry – and he had called Tommy’s name in the way that he hated to hear. It was the way that meant he had been noticed when good boys were meant to be unseen and unheard. “Tommy, come here.” He had ordered, and the boy had trembled a bit as he put down the tiger. His thumb had slipped from his mouth; the gesture suddenly all pretense and no substance when he truly needed the comfort.

Tommy had stood up and walked to Mr. Elliot, big lamb like eyes showing with fear as each cautious step echoed in the click of his heels to the hardwood. “Haven’t we had this talk about your habit already?” The man had inquired and only fear of repercussion had stopped Tommy from beginning to cry at that. “Yes, Sir.” He had said instead, tone certain so he wouldn’t be accused of the crime of muttering like a common boy. There was nothing common about an Elliot. Then, as if the last few years of his life had been a lie, Father had smiled at him. It was rare that he smiled at all, but to have the man smile at him had seemed completely miraculous. It was a smile that would haunt Tommy till the day that he died.

“Well? Don’t look so upset! Come and sit on your daddy’s lap.” Mr. Elliot had encouraged and Tommy felt as if he were climbing a particularly tall mountain to someplace yet unknown when he obeyed. He wasn’t used to the title Daddy because it had been dubbed ‘low class’ while he was still unborn; Daddy, it was decided, was what whores called their john. His father had stroked his baby soft cheek, and looked at him so very seriously then. Tommy had fidgeted on his father’s lap under the gaze and tugged on the hem of his short-pants while he waited to be scolded for misbehaving. He wasn’t used to being in someone’s lap anymore, at that age, so he had felt that there must have been an inherent lesson. It just wasn’t something that a grown up boy of seven was supposed to do.

Yet, instead of the box to his ear that he had expected for the thumbsucking, Tommy was shocked when Father had lifted that amber filled glass to his lips. He had encouraged his son to drink it with a flick of his wrist that dampened Tommy’s lips, and let it trickle down his chin to leave no other option. It tasted like medicine and it was hard to swallow because it burnt his throat as he did, but obediently, he had swallowed unpleasant sip after unpleasant sip of the drink. Mr. Elliot had seemed very pleased, so Tommy convinced himself that maybe he really enjoyed the burn of the scotch in his mouth. He imagined that he actually liked that tarry rough flavor, which would have been a very grown-up thing to do. After all, maybe, if he were just more grown up, he could get a few more of those rare smiles from Father. With enough of those, Father might actually have started to love him.

Unfortunately, Tommy would muse to Dr. Crane, that was exactly what had begun to happen. Father had taken away the empty cup with a chuckle as Tommy’s fingers curiously slid through the condensation on the crystal. Then he had kissed his son’s lips. He had enjoyed that the scotch didn’t do enough to cover the hint of warm milk and vanilla on his breath from tea. It made the Tommy’s stomach turn when he recalled that he had pressed back into the kiss. It was because that’s what he had seen Mother-dearest do every time that Father kissed her; it was what every film starlet did to the hero. His innocence and eagerness to please had been rewarded with memories that would never vanish from his mind. They were the memories which would slowly birth Hush.

Father had picked Tommy up and carried him to the nursery, holding him just so sweetly that the boy was given his first chance to rest his cheek against the man’s shoulder. It had been bliss for that brief journey, despite the odd feeling the scotch had left in the pit of his stomach. Father had settled him on the bed with a kiss to his curls, surrounded by well loved Stieff bears and creamy silk trimmed blankets which spoke more of babies than boys. Then Mr. Elliot had searched the dresser drawer feverishly till he found a long forgotten pacifier. The man had rolled it between his fingers like a coin as he came to sit on the edge of the bed, giving his son a brief glimpse before it was thrust forward. Tommy had parted his lips obediently to the plastic nipple slipping into his mouth, ignorant to the meaning of his father’s speeding breath. 

Father’s eyes had seemed to darken as he moved the base of the soother back and forth to nestle it in Tommy’s mouth. “Good boy.” He had encouraged to his son, voice low and full of something unfamiliar. “Doesn’t that feel so much better?” He had demanded while he tapped the base of the pacifier hard enough to smart as Tommy’s lips were forced against his teeth. It wasn’t a question. Tommy would have liked to have protested, because he really was seven full years old and these were for babies. It did feel good, though, to have the pacifier in his mouth in lieu of his naughty habit. It had also felt so good to have all of his Father’s attention in a way which seemed like love. So he had looped his fingers into the ring of the soother, and nodded his head slowly.

Tommy snuggled down into the sea of cozy blankets, eyes fighting to stay open so he could fully appreciate the rare favor that he had found with Father. He had just begun to realize how warm and sleepy that bad tasting drink had left him, but he wasn’t quite ready for this to end. Then Father began to pat his bottom just hard enough for him to worry that it was a warning of a spanking to come. Had he been wrong the whole time? Fear rushed into his mind and he whined past the pacifier in his mouth. He had been foolish this entire time to think that Father was going to love him; he was going to get spanked for sucking his thumb now and for being stupid. Stupidity was a crime that couldn’t be tolerated, and he knew that.

Father had tugged down his shorts, pulling his underpants down in the same firm motion. The air was cool against his bare skin, yet Mr. Elliot simply rubbed a hand against the boy’s bottom in contemplation instead of striking him. He had picked up more than the soother from the desk, it seemed, and he had dampened his finger with the lavender scented baby oil that Mother-dearest rubbed against Tommy’s skin after she bathed him. Tommy’s heart had sped in confusion; he didn’t understand why he would do that. The answer was as painful as any of his lessons. Father had moved his fingers lower and pressed into Tommy. He hastily shushed the whimpered ‘Oww’ that escaped past the pacifier and tears burned Tommy’s eyes. He shook his head at his father in silent pleading, gazing towards him with wide damp green eyes.

Father had kept his finger there and he was spoken, trying to quiet the boy and trying to convince him that this new thing didn’t feel bad at all. Tommy couldn’t remember the words, but they didn’t matter. The words were just a jumble of lies that faded into the darkness of the shame surrounding the memories. His father had unfastened his own pants with a trembling hand and pulled out his arousal, and the boy hadn’t really understood why it was so wrong or why he was so terrified. He had stroked himself with a vigor that had left a painfully vivid memory. Tommy remembered being scared when Mr. Elliot had moaned his climax, and he recalled the unique agony of the man thrusting his fingers so hard into Tommy that he screamed.

“Hush, Tommy.” Father ordered, and it was the voice that he used when Tommy cried after being beaten. It was the voice he was most familiar with. It was angry and blaming. He picked up a silky black teddy bear from where it had fallen to the floor to jam into the boy’s arms, as if to relieve his guilt in the motion. Mr. Elliot had growled when his son let the stuffed animal lie limply against him, gasping out sobs. He wouldn’t have that self pity in his heir, so he forced the boy to hold it, pulling and pushing Tommy’s arms as he wanted them. “Hush! Nothing is wrong! Don’t you dare make another noise! Just hush and go to sleep!” He had growled, and the light was flicked off as Father left the room.

A maid had found Tommy in bed the next morning with the pacifier firmly held in his mouth, still dressed in his Eton suit, with a tiny palm pressed firmly against his tear stained cheek. They had been very good dreams he noted, when Dr. Crane pushed him to recall every detail; dreams about tigers, elephants, and India. What did he feel, when the maid had seen the semen wiped carelessly against the fabric of his short-pants? That was what Dr. Crane wanted to know; was it that special agony of humiliation that his mentor savored like only a true sadist could? That answer would have been so obvious if Tommy had been anyone else, but it wasn’t the one which slipped past his lips. Shame was for the weak, Tommy had informed the doctor; all he had felt was hatred.


End file.
